Proud
by Duchess Winna
Summary: He will make her proud. Rodolphus thinks about his wife, post Deathly Hallows. Oneshot, Deathly Hallows spoilers.


**J.K. Rowling owns these characters; I do not.**

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He took her body and ran before anything could happen to it. He didn't wait to see the Dark Lord's defeat at the hand of the Potter boy, for he didn't want Bella near any of that. He would shield her from the turn of events that she would be sure to despise.

He recalled the first Death Eater meeting he had invited her to. He had taken the Mark and she had wanted to so desperately that he couldn't refuse her, he never was able to. He watched her get branded and did nothing and now he wished that he had been able to deny her this. He wished that he had done something to stop this.

Because of his inability to stand up to her, she was dead, she had gone into the obsession that he was afraid of and she had never resurfaced completely.

He kissed her lips, hating their coldness. She was always so warm, so passionate, it was disconcerting to see the fire all gone out of her. He let himself cry, he knew she would have hated that, but he felt it was necessary. He wouldn't hide his feelings, he had become an expert at that over the years, but he wouldn't now, not when it was her lying there dead.

She really would have hated what he had done. He never possessed her unwavering devotion, though he pretended to for her sake. He had fled and she would have hated that. He was letting out his feelings, baring them to the world. She would have hated what he was doing. He knew that she would have been proud to die, rather than live in shame. He loved that about her. He loved everything about her.

"I love you." The words were quiet, honest. He wanted her to hear them.

He lay with his head on her stomach, wanting to stay there forever, hoping that he too might die and be with her. He wanted desperately for that to happen. He hated that he had gotten her into the Death Eaters, he detested the feelings of guilt that overwhelmed him, knowing he was responsible for the death of his wife, the woman he loved with everything he had. He had been so proud of her passion, her ardor, loved it, until it had backfired on her.

He knew that to some she deserved it, she deserved to die a million times for the crimes that she committed, but he could not see it, not just because he too had committed them. All the things she had done, all that she was, had blended to be part of her, and when he loved her, he loved all of her.

He put her in the graveyard next to her parents gently. None of the other Blacks that died were buried there, neither Sirius's nor Regulus's bodies were recovered. He lowered his wife into the grave, a sense of finality over him. He could have pretended, until now. He could have deluded himself into thinking that it wasn't over, but once she was in the earth there was no more room for it.

He placed her in the tomb, looking at her, keeping her in his memory, even though she would have wanted him to remember other times. She would have told him to think of the days where she was whole, not ripped apart by Azkaban, but the broken woman that lay in the ground was who he had now.

But she was right, he made a vow that she was not who he would remember. When he thought of his wife he would think of the charming, reckless woman whom he had married, the woman that loved him and he loved back.

He let the tears fall on the grave once she was out of sight, let them all go until he was through. He was always so strong, so cold, except when it came to her. She had always had the ability to break through to his heart and touch him there, she was the only person that could. It was fitting that she would continue to do so in death. Once he was done he had put everything in perspective, had thought about what she would have wanted, for that was the most important thing now.

He had life, she didn't. She was so full of life, it was incredible that suddenly it was all gone. She would have wanted him to live his life for both of them.

He hoped she wouldn't become a ghost; he couldn't bear the thought of her being confined to this world, unable to go on. Yet Bella was never afraid of death, she was never afraid of anything. She went out to meet danger, she bathed in it, just as she had death, and he knew in his heart that she would move on. Someday he would too, and he would meet her there. But not now.

There was only flight for him. If he stayed he would go to Azkaban and that would not be what Bellatrix would want, he knew. He would go and he would live and do all the things they planned on doing when the Dark Lord won, to celebrate. Now it would be in defeat, in shame, but it didn't matter. He would travel all over Europe like they did on their honeymoon. He would pretend she was beside him.

He turned away from her grave, conjured a flower to place there, a rose, her favorite.

He walked proudly out of the graveyard, proud of her for dying bravely, proud of himself for not giving in to his grief and losing himself. For a brief hour he had let himself cry, it would not happen again, he would not mourn her but instead do as she would have wanted. Still, he turned to gaze one last time at the grave where his wife was buried. He would not see it again for a long time, maybe never, until it was safe to return to Britain. He would imprint it in his memory.

"Oh, Bella," he whispered to the air, hoping that somehow she could hear, "I will make you proud."


End file.
